At this point the narrative of my unfortunate friend, Mr Graves of St
Chad's, breaks off abruptly. He wrote it shortly before his death, and
was prevented from completing it by the attack of heart failure which
carried him off. In accordance with the instructions in his will, I have
prepared it for publication, and now in much fear and hesitation, give
it to the world. First, however, I must supplement it by such facts as
fall within my knowledge.
The shepherd seems to have gone to Allermuir and by the help of the
letter convinced the inhabitants. A body of men was collected under the
landlord, and during the afternoon set out for the hills. But
unfortunately the great midsummer storm--the most terrible of recent
climatic disturbances--had filled the mosses and streams, and they found
themselves unable to proceed by any direct road. Ultimately late in the
evening they arrived at the cottage of Farawa, only to find there a
raving woman, the shepherd's sister, who seemed crazy with brain-fever.
She told some rambling story about her escape, but her narrative said
nothing of Mr Graves. So they treated her with what skill they
possessed, and sheltered for the night in and around the cottage. The
next morning the storm had abated a little, and the woman had recovered
something of her wits. From her they learned that Mr Graves was lying in
a ravine on the side of the Muneraw in imminent danger of his life. A
body set out to find him; but so immense was the landslip, and so
dangerous the whole mountain, that it was nearly evening when they
recovered him from the ledge of rock. He was alive, but unconscious, and
on bringing him back to the cottage it was clear that he was, indeed,
very ill. There he lay for three months, while the best skill that could
be got was procured for him. By dint of an uncommon toughness of
constitution he survived; but it was an old and feeble man who returned
to Oxford in the early winter.
The shepherd and his sister immediately left the countryside, and were
never more heard of, unless they are the pair of unfortunates who are at
present in a Scottish pauper asylum, incapable of remembering even their
names. The people who last spoke with them declared that their minds
seemed weakened by a great shock, and that it was hopeless to try to get
any connected or rational statement.
The career of my poor friend from that hour was little short of a
tragedy. He awoke from his illness to find the world incredulous; even
the country-folk of Allermuir set down the story to the shepherd's
craziness and my friend's credulity. In Oxford, his argument was
received with polite scorn. An account of his experiences which he drew
up for the 'Times' was refused by the editor; and an article on
"Primitive Peoples of the North," embodying what he believed to be the
result of his discoveries, was unanimously rejected by every responsible
journal in Europe. At first, he bore the treatment bravely. Reflection
convinced him that the colony had not been destroyed. Proofs were still
awaiting his hand, and with courage and caution he might yet triumph
over his enemies. But unfortunately, though the ardour of the scholar
burned more fiercely than ever and all fear seemed to have been purged
from his soul, the last adventure had grievously sapped his bodily
strength. In the spring following his accident he made an effort to
reach the spot--alone, for no one could be persuaded to follow him in
what was regarded as a childish madness. He slept at the now deserted
cottage of Farawa, but in the morning found himself unable to continue,
and with difficulty struggled back to the shepherd's cottage at
Allercleuch, where he was confined to bed for a fortnight. Then it
became necessary for him to seek health abroad, and it was not till the
following autumn that he attempted the journey again. He fell sick a
second time at the inn of Allermuir, and during his convalescence had
himself carried to a knoll in the inn garden, whence a glimpse can be
obtained of the shoulder of the Muneraw. There he would sit for hours
with his eyes fixed on the horizon, and at times he would be found
weeping with weakness and vexation. The last attempt was made but two
months before his last illness. On this occasion he got no farther than
Carlisle, where he was taken ill with what proved to be a premonition of
death. After that he shut his lips tightly, as though recognising the
futility of his hopes. Whether he had been soured by the treatment he
received, or whether his brain had already been weakened, he had become
a morose silent man, and for the two years before his death had few
friends and no society. From the obituary notice in the 'Times' I take
the following paragraph, which shows in what light the world had come to
look upon him:--
"At the outset of his career he was regarded as a rising scholar in one
department of archæology, and his Taffert lectures were a real
contribution to an obscure subject. But in afterlife he was led into
fantastic speculations; and when he found himself unable to convince his
colleagues, he gradually retired into himself, and lived practically a
hermit's life till his death. His career, thus broken short, is a sad
instance of the fascination which the recondite and the quack can
exercise even over men of approved ability."
And now his own narrative is published, and the world can judge as it
pleases about the amazing romance. The view which will doubtless find
general acceptance is that the whole is a figment of the brain, begotten
of some harmless moorland adventure and the company of such religious
maniacs as the shepherd and his sister. But some who knew the former
sobriety and calmness of my friend's mind may be disposed timorously and
with deep hesitation to another verdict. They may accept the narrative,
and believe that somewhere in those moorlands he met with a horrible
primitive survival, passed through the strangest adventure, and had his
fingers on an epoch-making discovery. In this case they will be inclined
to sympathise with the loneliness and misunderstanding of his latter
days. It is not for me to decide the question. Though a
fellow-historian, the Picts are outside my period, and I dare not
advance an opinion on a matter with which I am not fully familiar. But I
would point out that the means of settling the question are still
extant, and I would call upon some young archæologist, with a reputation
to make, to seize upon the chance of the century. Most of the expresses
for the North stop at Allerfoot; a ten-miles' drive will bring him to
Allermuir; and then with a fifteen-miles' walk he is at Farawa and on
the threshold of discovery. Let him follow the burn and cross the ridge
and ascend the Scarts of the Muneraw, and, if he return at all, it may
be with a more charitable judgment of my unfortunate friend.